A solitary disbeliever walks outside an ornate moonlit palace, watching patches of light and shadow on the walls. The gates are described as hammered serafin, giving the place an unearthly, almost sacred atmosphere. Yellow light rocks across the still façades or spins on the pinnacles, while he can only imagine humming and sleep. Inside, he pictures babies resting safely, held by the night and drawn toward soft dreams of fledgling wings. But the building’s blank windows seem to refuse him, deepening his loneliness. For him there is no such shelter: instead of innocent sleep, black birds turn in his mind and make the solitude harsh. His disbelief lies cold in his heart, and the closing image of a broad-brimmed hat drawn low over his eyes suggests someone sealed off from comfort and vision. The mood is quiet, eerie, and sorrowful, full of moonlight and exclusion.
Palace of the Babies — Summary
The disbeliever walked the moonlit place, Outside of gates of hammered serafin, Observing the moon-blotches on the walls.
The yellow rocked across the still façades, Or else sat spinning on the pinnacles, While he imagined humming sounds and sleep.
The walker in the moonlight walked alone, And each blank window of the building balked His loneliness and what was in his mind:
If in a shimmering room the babies came, Drawn close by dreams of fledgling wing, It was because night nursed them in its fold.
Night nursed not him in whose dark mind The clambering wings of birds of black revolved, Making harsh torment of the solitude.
The walker in the moonlight walked alone, And in his heart his disbelief lay cold. His broad-brimmed hat came close upon his eyes.